


Consulting Hours

by a_storm_of_frustrations



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Barebacking, Creampie, Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Romance, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-24
Updated: 2020-03-24
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:35:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22895764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_storm_of_frustrations/pseuds/a_storm_of_frustrations
Summary: “Are you sure, Miss Eisner?” Seteth tilts his head, warm breath fanning her cheeks. “The fine line between faith and devotion is dangerous.” The pads of his fingers continue their slow massage. Touch barely there. But enough that it burns her all the same.“Show me”, Byleth whispers, tongue peeking out to wet her lips. “Show me how dangerous devotion can be.”--Seteth teaches Byleth the difference betweenfaithanddevotion.
Relationships: My Unit | Byleth/Seteth
Kudos: 81





	Consulting Hours

**Author's Note:**

  * For [theparadoxic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/theparadoxic/gifts).



> Belated happy birthday hahaha!

The words wash over her. Heat gradually coils in her stomach. Everything sounds muffled. Head submerged underwater. 

Blue eyes can’t help but focus on the way her Professor strides in quick but confident measures. Can’t help but focus the way her Professor sits down. Thick fingers clasping the head of his necktie, loosening it a little. Wondering how those fingers would feel—

Byleth shakes her head. No. This isn’t the right time. She has a plan. A  _ solid _ plan.

“Ah, Miss Eisner”, she can’t help but shiver at the pleasant lilt in his voice. The syllables curling like a teasing caress. “Sorry you had to wait. I was caught up a bit between Professor Manuela and Professor Hanneman’s...differences in perspectives”. 

Byleth wants to say,  _ Professor Manuela and Professor Hanneman should just fuck. Honestly, get it out of their systems. _ And then she can almost imagine it. Sharp words, Manuela rolling her eyes, Hanneman stepping closer to prove his point. Manuela bent over the desk, her huge breasts trapped flat against the surface, nails raking down as Hanneman pounds hard behind her—

She shakes her head again. Her hands start to sweat. 

“It’s fine, Professor”, Byleth mumbles. “I do apologize for taking your time again.”

“Nonsense. Anything for a curious mind.” 

_ Curious _ is definitely the word for it. Curious keeps her up at night, tossing and turning, hips rutting into the mattress, trying to satisfy a current itch begging to be scratched. Curious finds her sitting in his class sometimes, thighs squeezed together, half-lidded eyes, and biting the cap of her pen. 

Seteth clears his throat. Byleth snaps out of her reverie.

“Yes, about that”, the fabric of her linen dress drags heavily against her skin, she crosses her legs, overlooking how her professor’s eyes are glued to the movement. “I wanted to discuss about the direction of the research paper I’m currently writing—”

“ _ Voluntarily”,  _ Seteth interjects. “I might add”, the corner of his lips pull upward. “Looking at your  _ stellar _ record, you’d hardly need this extra credit.”

Nails digging into her thigh, as she wills herself to stop all the cheesy, and not to mention cringe-y, amateur porn worthy lines that fill her head. Something about him wanting to make a mess out of her record, or a wordplay on needing an extra hard credit instead. She’s on a delicate mission. It’s not about getting  _ what  _ she wants, no, she’ll get that for sure.

It’s always about the timing.

Instead, she feigns what is  _ hopefully _ a disinterested expression, and quirks a tiny smile. “Well, what can I say, I’m really, really interested,'' she looks at him from underneath her lashes, slightly tilting her head. “You can even say I’m  _ devoted _ .”

Seteth clears his throat. Fiddles with his rolled sleeves. Touches his beard. Settles on resting his clasped hands on top of the desk.“About the Four Saints and Seiros, then?” His brows furrowed, his lips pulled in a tight line.

“Yes”, she perks, straightening her back as she sits up. “Just specifically about St. Cichol and St. Cethleann.”

“Very well”, Seteth nods, prompting her to continue.

“I’ve done the whole research and read on everything—from the Nabateans, to Nemesis’ betrayal, to the Ten Elites, the Relics, the holy war, all the way up to the Crests”, the words keep pouring out of her. This is probably the most she’s spoken. 

There’s nothing more exhilarating than when you’re being asked about your research. And boy, did she fucking spread the scope on that research wider than her legs would be, at the end of this session.  _ When, _ and not  _ if _ , things go well.

Truthfully, if you'd asked her six years ago, she wouldn’t have found herself in a postgraduate degree in psychology, applying for grants for research through cognitive behavioral counseling, and working as a part-time graduate assistant as well—teaching classes, tutoring students, the whole lot. She’s met interesting people all throughout, as friends, mentors, faculty, and of course, as Byleth studies Seteth’s stern expression, people she’s grown more than  _ fond _ of.

“Miss Eisner?”

“Oh right!” Embarrassment curls in her stomach. She slightly shakes her head, tucking stray strands behind her ear. “Well. I was wondering what became of the two.”

“St. Cichol and St. Cethleann?” 

Byleth nods.

Seteth hums briefly. The religious history of Garreg Mach University, which was founded by the Central Church during the time of the Holy War, was vast and definitely intense. Lots of lore, myth, and cryptic anecdotes left by the scholars. And these were all limited to Fodlan itself. The war undoubtedly affected other countries such as Almyra, Brigid, Dagda, and Duscur, just to name a few.

Usual thesis topics tend to lean towards something interesting yet broad, Nemesis and Seiros, the Relics, the Ten Elites and the descendants, there’s even a separate field wholly dedicated to studying  _ Crests _ . Seteth has read, peer reviewed, and even  _ published _ papers surrounding the subjects mentioned. Even if St. Cichol and St. Cethleann were broached, it would usually be about their crests, the magical abilities of crests, and how that impacted the role they played. Some even dared to cite his findings in proving that Nabeteans are children of dragons.

Although Seteth regards, as he hides his frown behind his clasped hands, Byleth has always been a bit... _ unorthodox _ . From her blue hair, to her blank expression, from the slender arch of her shoulders, leading to the exposed collarbone of her dress—

Something’s up.

There’s a sort of strange energy that begins to plague the tip of his fingertips. The urge to touch. To feel. To  _ covet _ . Seteth clenches both of his hands, as he stands up. The abruptness sliding the wooden chair with more force than necessary. “And what’s your topic again?”

“St. Cichol and St. Cethleann, Professor.”

As he walks towards the shelves of books, Seteth turns to arch his brow at her. “Kind of vague for a research topic, don’t you think?”

To his dismay, Byleth comes in prepared. “More on the psychology of obedience, then. The role of obedience in religion, how it came to be.”

Grabbing a rather worn out looking thick volume, Seteth flips a few pages, gently turning the faded brown crisp pages, skimming through years of highlights, notes, and haphazard tab markers stuck. “Most scholars have written that both have fled the Red Canyon after the genocide, assuming different identities, and they end up working with Seiros, then dubbed as Archbishop Rhea, to restore the Church—“

Byleth nods, to show that she’s listening, but to be frank, she’s read that part at least five times the past few weeks, and the interior design of her Professor’s office seems more interesting at that moment. She’s been in the office more than a few times, but the more she visits, the more sentimental information she uncovers about the usually strict terror. For example, there’s a small wooden framed photo of a young girl with bright green hair, with striking green eyes, and a soft smile as she holds a huge fish, easily twice her size. 

“—and after the Empire challenged the church, of course there’s the five year war, and then after, Fodlan reunification. It says that St. Cichol remained in the monastery to continue the new teachings, to guide, and to mentor the new age, while St. Cethleann...disappeared.”

“Did she die?”

“No but rather”, Seteth returns the book, and grabs a smaller yet as equally thick and worn out, binder, and flips through the entire thing, “Well, some scholars say that she lived out of the monastery wandering and helping others, while some argued that she returned to the monastery, embraced their real identities, and their familial relationship, and helped out in rebuilding Fodlan.”

“Huh, I see.”

“And for the record Miss Eisner '', he places the book back. Instead, choosing over to turn to his desk, and try to find the copy of the rough draft of the abstract Byleth already made. “You should remember that religion is based on faith. On believing. On hope. And St. Cethleann was mostly known about her unwavering faith, and kindness to help out those in need.”

With Seteth’s back facing her, the toned muscles shaping the standard navy blue Garreg Mach faculty uniform, Byleth squirms. “And St. Cichol?” Her voice comes out thinly, as if she’s been running a marathon. 

Before nervousness could take over her, Byleth stands.

Soundlessly, stopping just a breath away. The scent of freshly pressed laundry makes her want to bury her face in his neck.

Seteth continues. “St. Cichol was known for his just sternness, and his steadfast devotion to his daughter.” His eyes widen as he finds the paper he’s been looking for. “So if you’re going to relate it to psychology, I’d advise that it would be more interesting to link it to the psychology behind  _ devotion.  _ The role and the impact of devotion in religion, and in social groupings and the like.”

It’s now or never.

To be honest, if anybody asks her how she planned everything, who did she talk to, what got into her mind as she decided to go through  _ seducing _ easily the most terrorizing professor in the whole university, her answer would undoubtedly raise eyebrows, and produce uncalled yet extremely fair judgements. After all, it just took some risqué magazines she borrowed from Manuela, a bottle of Jeralt’s vodka from his poorly hidden stash in his office, and frequent observations from the shameless university skirt chaser Sylvain Jose Gautier. And that one time she caught Claude flirting with the Dean’s secretary to get more info on something nefarious, she’s sure.

If this whole thing blows up in her face, the worst scenario would just be they’d laugh it off, Seteth would drop her from his class, she’d be shipped off to another thesis advisor, and just possibly ruin her carefully cultivated relationship with her mentor. No big deal.

Byleth peers over his shoulder, all loose-limbed, the heat of her body against his, chest pressing lightly on his back, his leg positioned between her thighs, and a hand resting on his hip, her fingertips barely grazing the hem of his shirt. “And what of devotion, Professor?” 

Just as quickly as she moves in, she quickly gets away. Before Seteth could recover, or even process what just happened, Byleth leans against the desk, directly in front of Seteth, her dress rides up a bit as she makes room to lock him in. Casually, she plucks the paper right out of his hands. 

There’s heavy tension in the room now. So strong. So palpable, she’s surprised it hasn’t started burning yet. 

Her hands slightly tremble as she raises the paper to properly read. “W-what is the difference between faith and devotion, Professor? What’s the fine line between the two? And which do you consider more significant from a—a  _ religious _ aspect?”

The last two words shakes him out of a stupor. Seteth doesn’t know what to feel. Certain students have been attracted to him for countless reasons, but to think even Byleth of all people. And in his office, no less. The disappointment etched into his face almost instantly. “Miss Eisner, this isn’t—“

“I won’t tell if you won’t.”

“That’s hardly the point! Do you know what would happen—“

Byleth sets the paper somewhere behind her. She could work with this. She’s imagined the countless arguments a thousand times in her head. “Then tell me head on”, the confidence in her voice surprises her, “that you haven’t thought about _ this _ .” Her thighs squeeze his leg in emphasis. “Tell me, and I’ll stop. I’ll apologize, and it won’t happen again. I’ll take full accountability for the consequences of my actions.”

Silence.

“Or”, her hand touches his cheek, just to make him look at her, “it’s because I learn best in a hands-on manner”, she feels her cheeks grow warm at her clumsy thinly veiled euphemism, but still, it’s a small victory as Seteth does look at her, if only with a disgruntled expression. “Tell me more about devotion.” 

A range of emotions appear untethered through the cycling mixes of frowns and glares in varying degrees. The hand resting on his cheek travels down his face, pausing to lightly press the pad of her thumb against his lower lip. 

Blue eyes glance up. Seteth has already decided, with his walls back up, and his expression closed off. Green eyes boring into hers. 

_ It’s okay _ , Byleth clenches her jaw. The point is she  _ tried _ . And you have to make do with the consequences. The tip of her ears gradually feel hot. A sickening feeling settles in her stomach. There’s nothing else she’d rather do now than get off that table, head home, take a shower, and drown herself with a terrible reality show. 

Gingerly, she spreads her thighs some more, preparing to cross her legs to be able to push herself off from the table.

That is, until Seteth’s hands rest on top of her thighs, his fingers lightly exploring the exposed skin in lazy circles. Byleth whips her head upwards instantly, eyes wide, searching for any hint to put an end to this. Not that she could make sense of anything at that moment. Her ears could only hear the thudding of her heart in quick bursts, loud, and then quiet. “Professor”, her voice sounds so far away. “Are you s—”

“Are  _ you _ sure, Miss Eisner?” Seteth tilts his head, warm breath fanning her cheeks. “The fine line between faith and devotion is dangerous.” The pads of his fingers continue their slow massage. Touch barely there. But enough that it burns her all the same. 

“Show me”, Byleth whispers, tongue peeking out to wet her lips. “Show me how dangerous devotion can be.”

Nothing happens. Eyes locked. Hands on her thighs. Fingers clutched at the desk. Both waiting for the pin to drop.

And then, Seteth  _ moves _ .

Next thing Byleth sees is the ceiling. Hears the falling of papers and notebooks down the ground. Feels Sethet’s fingers branded into her skin, as he grabs her ankles, dress revealing her underwear. 

She supports herself on trembling arms, gaze meekly raised, surprised that the needy whines are actually coming from her. 

Seteth sends her a cool glance, as if she’s just another paperwork to be resolved, and not a simpering harlot in heat, desperate to get dicked down. “Faith”, he murmurs against her ankle, the press of his lips causing Byleth to thrust her hips into the air, “is complete trust.” His mouth kissing what he could reach, one hand slowly pushing her leg to her rib. “For example, faith is me giving in to you. And what you want. And you, being fucked on this desk”, his teeth sink in the inside of her thighs, causing her to gasp loudly, hands shooting out to grab at anything. “Complete faith that the door is locked. Without anyone walking in and seeing us, like this.”

_ Fuck, fuck, fuck. _ Just the thought that  _ anyone _ could walk in, see how truly perverted and filthy they both are—

“Please, please,  _ professor _ .”

His mouth drives her crazy. Every nip, every bite, every soothing fold of his tongue, heightens her  _ awareness _ . Her breasts are practically begging to be fondled. Her nipples are rubbing against the fabric. Her panties are soaking  _ wet _ .

“And devotion”, Seteth continues, voice low and muffled, as he inched his way to where she needs him the most. “Devotion is giving you what you want”, he delicately tugs down her underwear, leaving it in one leg, “even if it means watching the world burn.” And eats her out.

Electricity runs through her body. Touch as if burned, yet doused with ice cold water. Byleth flops on top of the desk, twisting her torso, writhing in explosive pleasure.

Seteth dips his tongue in between her folds. Two fingers gathering her slick before pushing inside. He sucks hard at her clit as his knuckles bury deep, groaning at the insane warmth. 

“Prof—Set— _ eth _ ”, Byleth pleads, tears forming in her eyes, “Seteth please  _ please _ fuck me.”

Two fingers turn into three. Scissoring. Stretching. As his mouth proceeds to leave a variety of striking hickies stark against her creamy pale skin. “I’m not going to last long.”

“Just please—I want—you, inside”, her hands fumble, blindly searching for any sort of physical connection. “Kiss me please, then fuck me.”

Seteth pulls his fingers out. Unfasten his belt. Pulls down his boxers and his pants. Rubs his hard cock against her wet pussy. With his clean hand, he unbuttons her dress and pushes her bra upwards, groaning as he sucks on her nipple, and trails all sorts of marks to her collarbone, her neck, and her jaw.

Byleth slides down the desk a bit, spreads her thighs wider, making it as easy as it is for the other. With the back of her hand, she wipes at his mouth, grabs his hair, and tugs him down for a bruising kiss, Seteth fucking into her.

The height of the desk poses a bit of a problem, so Seteth can’t nail her the way she wants him to. But he makes it up by fucking in deep, grinding his hips, and then dragging out of her slowly. Hands all over her body. Her breasts. Her nipples. Her trembling thighs. Thumbing the bruises and the love bites. 

Byleth feels the building pressure. As much as she can, she starts to meet his hips, rocking the contents of the desk unto the floor, she claws at his arms, and her hand shifts into his hair, jerking him upwards, clenching at the hiss leaving his mouth. 

“‘m close”, the words slur, sighing as he bends down and swallows the mewling noises. “You feel so  _ good _ ”, Byleth moans, finding his hand, cleaning his fingers, reveling in her taste. 

“Fuck, fuck, Byleth.”

Byleth bites her lip so hard as she peaks. Wave after wave of pleasure, her pussy throbbing. She could distinctly feel Seteth pounding into her, biting at her collarbone. 

With a growl, he stills, fucking  _ deep _ into her one last time, she could feel him in her stomach. 

He pulls out, breathing heavily, as he snatches a few tissues from his desk drawer. He wipes his dick and carefully cleans spilled cum from her pussy. “Keep it in until we get home”, Byleth shivers at the order, watching him shift her limbs so she could wear her panties properly, and fix her dress.

“Really”, Seteth sighs, as he presses his lips on her forehead. Extends his hand, as Byleth takes the assistance, carefully extracting herself from the table. 

Byleth beams. “What gave it away?”

“Flayn mentioned something this morning,” Seteth runs his fingers through her hair, smiling a bit as her forehead is exposed. “Manuela’s smug expression”, Byleth rolls her eyes at that, “and of course, this dress”, Seteth swipes his thumbs over her collarbones, before nimble fingers start to clasp the buttons. Another huff of laughter. “This dress.”

“Yes, this dress”, she nods. Overall, her memory might not be the most reliable one. But certainly, ask her any question about that day, and she can answer easily enough. “This dress brought us into the mess where we are now.”

“A mess, hm?” A boyish grin curls into the other man’s mouth, bending to kiss her on the cheek. “A mess it is, among other things. Speaking of mess, may I please have it back now?”

“Have what back?”

Seteth looks on patiently.

“Ah!” Her eyebrows fly up. “Yes, yes. Of course.” Reaches into the deeper pocket of her dress.

“It was there all along? Byleth, you could’ve lost it! What on earth would even be a good enough reason for you to—”

Another sermon has been successfully cut short with Byleth holding her hand out, a parody of what Seteth offered not too long ago. “To do this again.”

And Seteth may be a source for incessant griping, and that most of the time, they have conflicting approaches and views on the same things. But then she is also reminded of the unconditional love for  _ Flayn _ , and now for  _ her  _ too, that this man has. She’s reminded of his passion for writing such wonderful children’ stories, his relaxing approach to fishing, and his determination to contribute to students’ development through teaching. 

The simple gold wedding band slips neatly to his ring finger. 

As Seteth puts the ring on her finger, Byleth can’t help but hum the wedding march.

“You may kiss the bride?” Seteth raises a brow. Arms wrapped around his neck, she laughs brightly, pulling him down so she can kiss him again and again. Seteth rests his forehead against hers. One hand cupping her cheek.

“Happy anniversary, love.”

“Happy anniversary.”


End file.
